


Stewing

by apprenticenanoswarm



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:18:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22100146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apprenticenanoswarm/pseuds/apprenticenanoswarm
Summary: Paz Vizla reflects on his bad temper.
Relationships: The Mandalorian/Paz Vizla
Comments: 13
Kudos: 393





	Stewing

Paz regretted his words.

His regret had taken root mere minutes after Din’s departure and, in the intervening half hour, had grown large enough to start bearing the bitter fruit of embarrassment. He caught the others shooting him looks and lowered his head, face hot beneath his helmet.

‘Coward.’

Why had he said that? 

Throughout their childhoods, Paz had been known for the generosity with which he spread his words around, just as Din had been known for his verbal miserliness. Paz had a wealth of favoured insults at his disposal, whereas the worst he’d ever heard shy, mumbling Dun call someone was ‘careless’ – and it had been said more as a statement of fact (aimed, of course, at him, and not unjustly). So why had he, Paz the Eloquent, Paz the Knife-Tongued, chosen such a clumsy and inappropriate word?

“We will be having stew for dinner again,” murmured the Armorer as she passed. “Go help Mel chop the vegetables.”

Chastened, Paz accepted his penance and made his way to their small cooking enclave.

As he chopped, his ruminations returned. ‘Coward.’ No, no. Not at all. Din was a pragmatist, true, but such was in accordance with the Way. When courage was needed, he was never found wanting.

The real problem, Paz decided, was that the man was more single-minded than anyone he’d ever met; incapable of working towards multiple goals simultaneously. ‘Earn money so that the tribe may survive,’ he’d been told. And so he had. If the order had been ‘make war upon the Empire’s remnants’, no doubt he would have done so with equal devotion. But ‘earn money while maintaining hostilities with the Empire’ – too much. Din Djarin did exactly one thing at a time.

Case in point: When they’d been children, he’d been a dreadful shot. Frightened of guns, see, flinching every time he’d pulled the trigger. At ten years old, he’d had the worst aim out of all the Foundlings in their age group and oh, how Paz had teased him for it. Bullied him, really. And then Paz had wandered past the firing range one night after dinner and found Din practicing. He’d practiced all night and all through breakfast. For the next six months, he’d done nothing but work on his aim. His studies had been neglected. The muscles his small body had been accumulating had melted away. When he’d finally returned to regular lessons, he’d hit every bullseye, his round, serious face reflecting no pride, merely the satisfaction of a task completed.

In this way, Din had taught Paz that we are more than what nature gives us.

And, for that, Paz had thanked him and congratulated him. So why had he called him a coward now, when he was only doing what he’d always done?

“Once again, my temper has betrayed me,” he said to the latest bisected carrot. “I will apologise. When he returns, I’ll offer him my new knife. That will make things right. He’s never been one to hold a grudge. Too soft.”

The decision made his heart lighter and he tossed his conversation partner into the bubbling pot with a salute. Now that regret no longer clouded his thoughts, he could enjoy the memory of Din striding out in his fine new armor. No mudhorn signet – silly, humble boy. Humble and beautiful, the gleaming beskar giving him the look of a hero from a noble old story.

“The Armorer’s Favourite was, indeed, a captivating sight,” Mel said, retrieving spices from the shelf. “But if you daydream about him much longer, my friend, the potatoes will grow legs and scurry away.”

“I was NOT daydreaming. I was just… do you think he would like my new blade?”

“Who knows? That one’s always been impossible to read. I’m sure he’d appreciate the gesture, though.”

A frantic Foundling ran into the kitchen, wide-eyed. “Paz! It’s Din! There’s Stormtroopers! Come, come, quick!”

A potato rolled under the table as Paz started to run.

When it was finally retrieved, having failed to grow legs in the interim, Paz was mulling over the revelation that handsome Din’s laser-focused mind had fixed itself upon a new objective.

How frustrating that said objective still wasn’t him.


End file.
